


On the Third Day He Took Me to the River

by glitteringvoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Blood and Violence, Brutal Murder, Dark Harry Potter, Denial of Feelings, Falling In Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Unhappy Ending, Witch Hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24757840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringvoid/pseuds/glitteringvoid
Summary: This is a story of two lonely young men falling in love.This is a story about dreams and duty, about witches that give purpose to the one and doom the other.You think you know how the story goes, but this is a different story, and it doesn't end well.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 23
Kudos: 23
Collections: HD Wireless 2020





	On the Third Day He Took Me to the River

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this fic for about a year now, in varying degrees of intensity and enthusiasm but never quite able to let it go completely. I almost gave up hope I would ever finish it.  
> And yet, here we are. Mostly, this is due to incredibly patient people who listened to my ideas and plans, who reassured and encouraged me, and who helped me over many a plot-induced crisis.  
> Thank you all for carrying me through this fic after I was struggling yet resolved to write it! A special thanks at my beta reader, for her quick and wonderful work!  
> Also thank you at the amazing mods, for hosting this fest and giving me the deadline I needed to finish this.
> 
> This fic is inspired by the song ['Where the Wild Roses Grow'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDpnjE1LUvE). I also took the liberty of using their lyrics in my fic, so all credit to Nicholas Cave for writing them.

It is said, in hushed voices filled with fearful awe, that the roses are cursed. The most beautiful roses in all the world, coloured the purest and deepest of reds, heavenly soft petals and luscious green leaves hiding vicious thorns. Many stories have been spun over the years, crediting the brilliance of their colour to demons caged within, telling of gruesome blood sacrifices made where they bloom, warning about travellers becoming enamoured with their image and forgetting everything else, too fascinated to save themselves from the withering death lurking behind the beauty. 

Whether those tales are true or nothing but stories told over a fire, meant to send chills racing over skin, is debatable. The one story that everyone knows, made undeniable by how deeply entangled it has become with the very essence of the story, is the tragedy of the lovers. 

Details have been embellished and exchanged, long since forgotten in their retelling. What everyone agrees on, however, is that there once was a beautiful witch, along with a bloodthirsty hunter who dedicated his life to freeing the world of witches, and that despite everything, they loved each other. 

From there on, there are many versions of the tale. People talk of bright summers spent together in carefree laugher, or cold winters huddled together in the witch’s cabin. They talk of great fights and heartache, too different to live together, too in love to live without each other. They knew each other for centuries or for not even a week, instantly falling in love or hating each other with a passion at their first meeting. 

In every version, they are doomed from the start. 

In every version, as the roses stand silent witness, the hunter kills the witch. 

* * *

The roses are the most beautiful thing Draco has ever seen. They are red — deep, deep red — and look so soft that he wants to touch them. Mother would like them, too, he is sure. They are perfect. 

Draco reaches out to pick one, maybe two (flower crowns are difficult that way, Draco never knows how much Mother needs to make them) when something sharp bites his finger. Draco snatches his hand back but it’s too late, it doesn’t help. His hand _hurts_ , so much, and it even _bleeds_. Draco is certain that this is how he dies. 

Draco isn’t a baby (he really isn’t, he is almost grown up already) but, faced with death, there is only one thing he can think to do. 

Mother looks up in alarm as she hears him crying, forgetting about the flowers in her lap and pushing everything away so there is space for Draco to sit. She doesn’t even care that Draco gets his blood on her dress as he hugs her. _This_ is why he came to Mother, even if he is too old for that kind of thing. Mother protects him, she makes everything better. 

“Calm down, darling, it’s alright. You're going to be fine.” Mother didn’t look at his hand, pulled Draco close and rubbed over his back. Draco already feels better. 

“I wanted to show you the roses, for the flower crowns.” Draco mumbles the words against her chest, he doesn’t want to move away. Mother always understands him anyway. 

“Did you forget they have thorns? This is why I warned you not to touch them, I didn’t want you to get hurt.” If Draco weren’t bleeding she would have more to say, he knows. Mother can be very scary when Draco did something stupid and worried her. 

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to bring you pretty flowers to make you smile.” Draco didn’t think for a second that they could hurt him like this. “And you call me your wild rose, I didn’t think they would bite _me_.” 

Mother laughs at that. That is better than crying or yelling, but Draco wants to be laughing, too. He doesn’t like being laughed at, _especially_ not when he is bleeding. He almost _died_. 

“That I do, my dragon, that I do. Now listen carefully: danger seldom lurks where you expect it, great beauty often masks greater danger. Do you understand that?” Draco doesn’t, not all of it, but Mother looks very serious and he nods to make her smile again. “Good, now show me that grievous wound so I can heal you.” 

Draco does, holding his hand up for Mother to look at and kiss where the roses bit him. Draco doesn’t know how she does it, it’s not any of the healing plants she showed him, but Mother says there is more magic on this world than humans could possibly understand. A mother’s love, she then always says, and laughs when Draco cuts a grimace. But she is right, it works every time. 

“I think you collected enough flowers for us, how about I show you how to braid them?” She offered to many times before, but Draco preferred picking up pretty flowers for her. But now, with Mother still worried about the roses, Draco knows she would be happier if he stayed here. And he so wants to make Mother happy. 

“Yes, please.” Mother smiles at him and kisses his forehead before letting him go, and, together, they pick up the flowers lying discarded on the floor. 

* * *

_From the first day I saw her I knew she was the one_

_She stared in my eyes and smiled_

_For her lips were the colour of the roses_

_That grew down the river, all bloody and wild_

_When he knocked on my door and entered the room_

_My trembling subsided in his sure embrace_

_He would be my first man, and with a careful hand_

_He wiped at the tears that ran down my face_

* * *

Draco hates the village. Every single part of it. He hates the cheerful greetings, the happy whistling, the joyful bustling. He always feels more lonely here, surrounded by a teeming crowd of people, than he feels in his cottage, left to his own devices. Even worse, he feels like _he_ is the weird one for not fitting in. 

He doesn't understand these people, how they can be satisfied with _this_ , how they can spend their whole life in the confines of this place, never wondering what lays beyond its borders. Every day is the exact same as the one before, and the most interesting thing that happens is the fat cat of old Agnes disappearing every now and then. This is always followed by Agnes tyrannising the entire village, until eventually one of the young boys is send up to check the attic in the abandoned farm, where the little bugger is found every time. Apparently Draco is the only who remembers that, and soon enough, old Agnes is back at it, blaming whoever is unfortunate enough to pass her house when she realises her cat is missing again and accusing them of kidnapping and holding her beloved cat hostage. No one even considers checking the farm. 

If it were feasible, Draco would shut himself in, never set a foot down here and live on his in own, in peace. Better yet — he would leave. He would travel, explore the world, see the things he has only ever read about. 

He made a plan, once. He drew a map of the world, all the known places and all the white spots, big enough to cover one entire wall. It’s accurate, too, all the distances painfully measured to be precise and countless travel reports poured into creating an accurate representation of the land. By the time Draco was finally done filling all the explored spots on his map, he swore to himself that he would never draw a single tree again. He had had quite enough of them. The white spots he filled with adventures, dragons and treasures and bright colours calling to him. That is where he wants to go, to see what was waiting past the endless monotony of the village life and tree line. 

The fact that he is well aware of the ties keeping him here never stopped him from dreaming. It did, however, force him to be more realistic in his expectations. 

Draco didn’t follow his map. He traced the paths he would take with his fingers, lost himself in reports and speculations, but he never left the village. In fact, he hardly ever left the cabin and surrounding woods. Spending his days telling squirrels stories of faraway lands is always preferable to _mingling_. 

Alas, he needs food at the very least, and books, too. Stories are just as, if not more so, important to his life as food is, and there is only one place Draco can get them. It’s just his luck that the bookstore is as central to the village as possible. Showing his face every now and then is unavoidable, burdensome as it is. 

"Draco, it's good to see you, my boy! Was getting worried, didn't hear a thing about you from anyone for almost a month." Michael waves him over, a steady rock in the sea of people. Draco sighs. 

He expected this, of course, and truly Michael isn't too bad — he gives Draco free pastries, as many as he wants, and only asks for some help with his back in return. It's not like Draco knows anything about backs either, but he knows a herb that dulls the pain, and he exchanges it gladly against delicious, sweet pastries. It’s a good deal, the kind of thing his mother would do, and objectively Draco has nothing to complain about. Only that Michael likes to _talk_ , filling Draco's head with gossip he doesn't care for about people he doesn't know. 

But there is no avoiding it; Michael saw him. 

Draco waves back, causing a bright smile to appear on the old man’s face. He immediately feels bad for trying to dodge him — Michael has precious little to smile about lately. Draco can smile and listen to his idle chatter for a while, he can do this. 

Taking a deep breath, Draco strides towards Michael, weaving his way through the people piling everywhere and trying not to let the discomfort show on his face. 

"I hope you brought some of these miracle greens with you, this weather is getting to me in the worst way possible." Michael smiles, already showing off pastries as he talks, judging them by an indiscernible standard and setting them aside if they pass his examination. 

It’s so quintessentially Michael, unchanged over all the years that they have been meeting like this. The man never stands still, always doing something, fussing over this or that, hands constantly busy and mouth running a mile a minute. Draco often wondered if that is just who Michael is or whether it hints at something else, that maybe the cheerful appearance is nothing more than simply that: an appearance. Maybe Michael is as unhappy here as Draco himself is, maybe he feels the same restlessness, the same tug to be somewhere else. Instead, he is stuck here, only others people’s scandals to entertain him and his body slowly failing him. 

The thought forces the chilling realisation of what happens to dreamers in this life. Draco hopes that _he_ won’t still be here when he is old, trading people herbs and wishing for the same things he has wished for all his life — adventure, something _more_. 

"These enough for you, boy?" The question startles Draco out of the dark turn his thoughts have taken, redirecting them onto the small tower of pastries Michael build. It’s a beautiful sight, wobbly and shaky but no less alluring for it, every pastry sure to be delicious and perfect. These are quite possibly the only reason Draco is still here, the only thing keeping him from packing his bags. (They are not, his sweet tooth is not quite that powerful, but it certainly sometimes feels that way. And if Draco likes to pretend it’s something as innocent as pastries shackling him to this miserable village, well, that is not one’s business but his own.) 

"That's plenty, thank you. I brought you your herbs." Draco doesn't watch the reverent way Michael inhales the smell, doesn't listen to the loud praises and well wishes. He is too busy figuring out the best way to stack the pastries in his bag. 

Stacking them is a delicate task, requiring some patience and lots of experience, and one wrong move can topple them all over again. He also doesn’t want another vision of his own life ending similarly, one has been more than enough. Yes, Michael is a poor lonely sod who might just have a worse life than Draco has, but they don’t need to interact beyond their usual, mostly one-sided talking. 

"Good luck with your back!" Pastries packed, herbs handed over and a last wave given, Draco escapes the stall before he has to politely refuse tea _again_. He still has chores to do; boring groceries to buy, sneering people to spite and the long walk home — today will be exhausting. 

* * *

Today is a good day for Michael. Granted, his back is acting up again, but he will take a pause soon, use some of that magic cabbage Draco brought him. Then Penelope had come by, invited him to a meal at her father’s pub again, brought him some flowers. She’s a sweet girl, always a smile on her face, always eager for a story and stealing one of the pastries when she thinks he isn’t looking. Between the two of them, Michael doesn’t have many pastries left. 

Sighing, Michael sits down behind his stall, eyes flitting over the bustling mass, shouting and laughing, greeting each other again after the weekend. It brings a smile to his face every time, the unbridled joy and the dramatic reunions, as if they don’t see each other outside of the market. 

Michael can see Anthony, standing out like a sore tooth, holding himself stiff like always, following his wife around with a besotted smile on his face, carrying whatever she piles onto his arms without protest. He winks at Old Mary, sitting on the well, smoking pipe and telling people how her well makes wishes come true, if only they toss in a coin and believe. He watches Artemis, every inch the goddess she’s named after, trying to impress Trina, lost in a book and not paying attention, only unharmed because Artemis steers her around and sees to her safety. He laughs at little Greg, riding on his father’s shoulders and pretending to be pirate, travelling the sea. 

It’s all so achingly familiar, so wonderfully warm and comforting — Michael wouldn’t want to live a day without it. Everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be, exactly as it has always been. Well, _almost_ everything that is. 

There is a man in the crowd, dark and unfamiliar, shoving and pushing his way through the people and glaring at everyone who dares to glance in his direction. Michael can’t look away, can’t stop staring, gaze always wandering back to him. Not even as the man’s eyes fall on him, eerily green and piercing. Eyes shouldn’t be this vibrant, not from this far away. A smirk forms on the stranger’s face, sharp and dangerous, and Michael sits frozen as he watches him approach. He cuts an imposing figure, black coat billowing after him, seemingly possessing a life of its own, dark shadows twisting and twirling around him. 

It’s ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, the sun is still shining down steady and warm, but Michael can feel chills racing down his spine. 

“I want two of those and three of these.” His voice is deep, rough and rumbling. Michael can only stare, his brain stuck somewhere between chasing the man away and doing whatever he wants in hopes that he leaves on his own soon. There is something off about him, unhinged. It makes him unpredictable. It scares him, and Michael doesn’t like that one bit. 

Staring, as it turns out, was the wrong decision. Michael doesn’t move fast enough for the man, and while all he does is raise an eyebrow, it’s enough to send Michael scrambling. In his long life he has never seen so much dark promise as he sees in that quirked eyebrow. His brain is now firmly lodged on praying that he doesn’t give cause to offend and that some pastries will be enough to have the man on his way, out of Michael’s village. 

Michael bends down to collect the pastries the man indicated, careful not to appear too hurried but not as careful with the goods as he would usually be, reaching forward to grab the last one — hot, searing pain shoots up his spine. Michael lets the bag fall, straightens in an attempt to make it better, uncomfortably aware of the eyes judging his every move. They do nothing to help the pain, quite the opposite actually, and Michael curses quietly as he rubs his back. It has troubled him for ages now, the only thing helping being those greens Draco brings, and sometimes a warm fire. 

The stranger is observing him, unsympathetic to his plight and waiting impatiently. It won’t do him any good though, Michael can’t bow down again, not this fast. Which in turn means nothing good for Michael, because there is no way he can get the man his order, and he doubts he is the kind to settle for anything but what he wanted. He might even go as far as collecting them out of the smoldering ashes of his store, Michael doesn’t want to find out. He needs to distract the man, needs to buy himself time. 

“Terribly sorry, Mister, it’s my back, you see, gives me some problems lately. My son was supposed to take over, to do the heavy work at least, but he decided this life isn’t for him. He left, almost a year ago now, plans to see the whole world. Stupid boy, head in the clouds and good for nothing. Didn’t even hesitate to leave me behind here, ungrateful brat. Thank everything holy for our Draco, I don’t know what I would do without his magic.” Michael is babbling, hardly even listening to a word he is saying, but the sharp intake of breath the man takes makes him still, throat sizing up and frantically going over his words. 

“Did you say _magic_?” There is something wicked in his expression, something delighted. It doesn’t sit right with Michael, but he nods, unable not to. 

“Not actual magic of course, but to me it might as well be.” The man is smiling, too bright, showing his teeth more than anything else, like a shark smelling blood. Michael tries not to think that this might be the purpose, that this is a _threat_. “There is a boy, living on the hill in a cottage, all by himself. Bright young man, he brings me herbs for my back, the only thing that helps really. I pay him in pastries, he’s got a sweet tooth that one —”

He is rambling on again, interrupted by a deep growl this time. The man is turned towards where Michael pointed, towards where Draco lives. There is something hungry in his eyes, something tense in his pose. Like a predator ready to pounce. Michael feels horrible for setting him on Draco’s path, a sick feeling blooming in his stomach. He shouldn’t have said anything, should have gritted his teeth and got the pastries and send the man on his way. 

Maybe, some foolish hopeful part of him whispers, maybe it’s not too late yet. Taking a deep breath to brace himself for the pain, he bends down again, quickly gathering the pastries and shoving them unceremoniously into the bag. “Here you go, Sir.” 

The man doesn’t even look at him, just nods and throws him some coins, grabs the bag and leaves. Directly towards Draco’s little hut. 

* * *

Just as he predicted, Draco had an exhausting day. He was forced to make polite smalltalk with people he does his best to avoid wherever possible, he suffered the concerned, motherly types worrying and fussing, he bore the disapproving glares with his head held high and as much projected confidence as he could. It has gotten easier over the years, knowing that half the people in this village wouldn’t mind too much if he dropped dead, would actually delight in the horrific tales they could spin about his probably violent and gruesome death. They already didn’t like him when his mother was still alive, but his mother was more charming than Draco will ever be and after she … anyway, they didn’t feel too warm towards him when he refused to move down to the village and let one of them assume the role of his mother. 

At least he got everything. He won’t have to go through this ordeal for a blissfully quiet few weeks. He got as much stuff as he could carry, which not only made it practically impossible to duck away from invasive people cornering him, but also made him look utterly ridiculous and gave the dimwitted hunks something to laugh at. But Draco doesn’t care, not anymore. He’s fine. He is exhausted to the bone, tired of people and more lonely than he has ever been, but he is fine. Completely fine. 

It’s the trip to the village, he knows. They always leave him melancholic. Draco knew to expect this, _did_ , in fact, expect this, but he can’t protect himself from the dark mood any more than he can hide from the ensuing realisations. No matter how much he tries to just get through these days, to work down his list and smile as people subtly insult him, it still always sets the reality of his life back into perspective. Draco can fool himself well enough when he is on his own, just himself full of dreams of an unexplored world calling to him, but the illusions he builds always crumble when he tries to press them into the rigid form of life in the village. 

Every time Draco reaches the same conclusions, forced to examine wistful hope under sombre contemplations, he realises that he isn’t happy. He isn’t content with just this, wants an unspecified _more_ that he has no idea how to obtain. He wants out of this house, out of this village, out of this life. He wants to _live,_ to laugh and to love and to feel overwhelming emotions that he can’t deal with. 

It’s not an easy thing to realise, even harder to push down deep enough that he can feign ignorance for a little longer. But there is nothing for it. Draco will stay right here. He is going to continue the books his mother begun to write and talk to no one in particular (probably going crazy, if he is being honest already he might as well call it what it is). Draco will always dream of things he isn’t brave enough to take. 

This right here, the darkness spilling over him and seeping through his mind, this is another reason Draco hates going to the village. If he could just — there is a knock on the door. 

A part of Draco is annoyed. A bigger part of Draco is relieved. 

Draco didn’t have any intentions of moving from his bed after collapsing on it earlier. He fully expected to fall into hazy and disconcerting dreams any time now, sleep claiming him but offering no real respite from his thoughts. 

Another knock. 

Fine then. Draco will get up, kindly point the stranger on their way again, and maybe he can finally make some tea then. Getting up solely for tea didn’t seem worth it, but if Draco is standing anyway — a third knock, harsh enough to make Draco doubt the stability of his door for a moment. Angry Stranger is clearly in a hurry. 

Groaning, Draco heaves himself up. Then he forces a smile, because his mother didn’t raise him to be rude. 

The man on the door is … Draco doesn’t even know to describe him without sounding like he fell into one of the romance novels he reads on particularly slow days. Draco never thought such men existed, but here he stands, the living and breathing embodiment of everything Draco ever dreamed a man to be. He is handsome, dark skin and even darker hair, a dangerous smile on his face and his green eyes sparking. He is breathtaking and alluring and all-consuming and if Draco ever thought even for a second that the books are over-dramatised and unrealistic, he now knows better. 

Barely remembering his manners — namely that the polite, _normal_ thing to do would be to say something appropriate and stop staring — Draco utters what he can only hope passes as a greeting but is more likely some very embarrassing noises. 

The man laughs, directly in his face. It’s more of a chuckle, really, faintly amused. Draco should be offended. Unfortunately, the sound is endlessly charming. Draco rather fears he would gladly listen to it for far longer than dignity allows him, and it doesn’t help with his ability to think at all. It might be making matters worse. 

Or better, depending on how you look at it. 

“Sorry to bother you,” the stranger’s voice is deep and rumbling, like his chuckling, and Draco decides it _definitely_ makes things better, “but I seem to be lost.” 

This is the kind of person his mother warned him about. Too large for the life Draco leads, unapologetically dangerous, a maelstrom of energy that is thrilling and enchanting while there but will leave behind only devastation. And leave they will, his mother assured him, all too familiar with that pain for Draco to ask for details. 

Even ignoring his mothers warning, there are practical reasons letting a stranger inside the house is considered one of the stupidest things one can do. Especially in Draco’s situation: it’s the middle of the night, with no people around for miles and he has absolutely no chance of defending himself should the man turn out to be violent. No one would be surprised if Draco ended up murdered on the best of days; _this_ is tempting fate. 

On the other hand, crazy axe-murderers are probably, most likely nothing more than tales to scare disobedient children into listening to their parents. Presumably. Even if not, Draco refuses to believe they would be this attractive. 

“I was taught not to let strange men inside. You could be dangerous.” Draco wishes the earth would open up and swallow him. That must have been the most awkward attempt at flirting ever witnessed. 

In what is quickly becoming a pattern Draco should mind more than he does, the man is again laughing at his clumsy attempts of communication. 

There is definitely something dark lurking in his laughter, something wicked in his smirk. It speaks of all the things Draco can only yearn for — a life lived, corners of the world he has never seen, experiences he can’t even imagine. Draco is utterly fascinated. Like the moth drawn to a flame (if only moths were a little more elegant and dignified). 

“Word has it,” the stranger leans closer as if sharing conspiracies, effectively looming over Draco, “that you are a witch. Maybe _I_ should be the one frightened.” 

If Draco hadn’t already, somewhere deep down and unacknowledged, decided to grant the man shelter, _this_ would be the moment he gave in. 

Contrary to this recent display, Draco does indeed possess some dignity and self-preservation. And those instincts tell him the man is well aware of the effect he has on Draco. So Draco doesn’t swoon, doesn’t succumb to the charms of dark-edged mystery. Instead he makes himself stand taller, meeting him head on, every inch reclaimed in indignation. 

“Who said anything about being frightened?” 

The man laughs, this one nothing like his simple amusement before. It’s less calculated, loud and free and infectious. Draco is caught staring all over again. He is beautiful like this, nothing of the darkness left on him, head thrown back in joy, warm and glowing and every bit as attractive as before. 

“I’m Harry.” 

It takes Draco an embarrassing long time (and another one of these amused chuckles, Draco already starts to rely on the man to measure his own foolishness, he might seriously have a problem) to tear his thoughts away from that laugh and shake the man's hand. Harry’s hand. 

The name fits him, in that odd way that it’s the complete opposite of what Draco expected while also being the only thing that seems right. 

Draco still hasn’t asked him in. It feels ridiculous, still shaking hands over the threshold, almost unmoved from when Draco opened the door.

Ultimately, it’s the rain that decides things. Sending Harry away would be cruel and might just mean a very unpleasant death for him. No one in their right mind would doom anyone to dying in such miserable weather. (At least that is what Draco tells himself, a convenient excuse not to overthink his first instinct of opening the door as wide as possible and inviting Harry - a stranger still, one might argue — into his house. Draco has already grown distressingly attached.) 

“Pleasure to meet you Harry, I'm Draco. Would you like to come in?” Harry looks far too pleased with himself as he crosses over the doorstep and into his home. 

* * *

Draco looks young in his sleep, so unbelievable young. Harry has been staring at him for what feels like ages now, watches how the moonlight softens his features, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. There is a peace about him that has nothing to do with stillness, Draco constantly moving, making the most endearing faces and reaching out for something to hold on to. Harry is utterly entranced. 

It seems almost impossible, standing here and watching over him, that Draco should be the very thing Harry vowed to annihilate. But he is, without doubt. 

Draco is witch, an evil, despicable _witch_. And Harry came here for one reason only — to rid the world of his plague. 

That’s the only reason Harry stayed as long as he did in that wretched village, why he waited for the rain to come splattering down to come here, why he didn’t just pass through to the next town. Everything was meticulously planned, every smile deliberate, every motion calculated. Harry chose this moment carefully, accepted the invitation to stay that he knew was coming, waited until he could be sure Draco was deep asleep. After all, it’s easiest to kill a witch when they are unconscious, the risk of being cursed or injured significantly reduced. 

And yet, the plan leading him smoothly right where he needs to be, Harry can’t bring himself to carry out the final step. He has done nothing but stare, the knife useless and heavy in his hand. 

This has never happened before. Harry has never had any problems killing witches, no matter how beautiful and charming they might appear to be. It isn’t pleasant work by any means, it doesn’t pay well and his service goes largely unrecognised, but it is works that needs doing nonetheless. Harry has committed himself to his work, honed his skill and accepted the life it demands from him. And he’s _good_ at it. Usually. 

Why does he hesitate? What is it about Draco that should make him different, special? 

It’s not like no one ever invited him in before. Harry can be charming when he wants to, and declining a free meal and bed would just be stupid. Draco isn’t even the first one to tell him a sob story about his oh so tragic life. As if Harry needs to be told what tragedy looks like, as if he doesn’t know, didn’t experience it firsthand. But he nods and pretends to listen and he offers a few platitudes and he waits until the time is right. 

Only, he didn’t just _pretend_ to listen to Draco. Harry actually _did_ listen to him, absorbed every word and pieced together the details Draco brushed over. He didn’t _mean_ to, he honestly didn’t, but Draco had been talking about dinner and Harry was hungry and wanted to know and somehow the dinner connected to Draco’s mother and before Harry knew what was happening, he was holding a crying Draco in his arms, trying awkwardly to sooth him and to make out what he was telling him. 

Draco talked about his mother, how important she was to him, the only person he ever loved, who ever loved him, would call him all kinds of ridiculous endearments only mothers can get away with and how he misses that. He talked about how she left him this cottage, how it was important that he stayed here but he doesn’t know why, how he came to hate this place since her death, living here all alone with a responsibility that binds him even though he doesn’t understand it, how he wants nothing more than to travel, to see if the world is as beautiful as he dreamed it to be. 

Draco had laughed, then, that kind of laugh that is still choked with tears, bitter and resigned. It had hurt Harry more than his tears. Harry held him tighter after that, purely out of the instinctual desire to protect who he spent the last hour consoling. 

They didn’t talk much after that, Draco’s sadness still clinging to them even though the man himself seemed rather content in Harry’s embrace. It was nice, sitting in silence together, feeling Draco against him, so trusting and unafraid despite Harry being basically a stranger. But Harry wasn’t going to remind him, not when he could just keep his hand tracing idle patterns over his back, his head nestled into Draco’s soft hair. 

He didn’t understand how badly he messed up then, didn’t see the consequences now glaring at him. Harry _knows_ Draco, knows what he looks like when he remembers his mother, when he grieves or laughs at the dumb jokes Harry made to make him feel better. Harry knows what the beat of Draco’s heart under his hand feels like and how his hair smells, how perfectly he fits tugged against him. 

Harry knows him, and he can’t kill him. 

* * *

_On the second day I brought her a flower_

_She was more beautiful than any woman I'd seen_

_I said, "Do you know where the wild roses grow_

_So sweet and scarlet and free?"_

_On the second day he came with a single red rose_

_He said "Give me your loss and your sorrow"_

_I nodded my head, as I lay on the bed_

_"If I show you the roses, will you follow?"_

* * *

On the risk of sounding dreadfully sentimental, but Draco can honestly say that he never slept better. And all it took was his complete humiliation by pouring his soul and problems over a stranger he allowed into his house despite every advice he has ever ever given. He is not supposed to make exceptions just because the potential-murderer looks stunning and has a nice laugh. If beauty is taken into consideration at all, it should be one reason more to close the door in their face, made even more suspicious by their attractiveness. 

But Draco _didn't_. No, he invited Harry in and shared his food with him and then he bawled his eyes out and shamelessly exploited Harry’s comforting presence. 

Shame is hitting him with a vengeance now though, as is the realisation that he behaved unfairly. He forced Harry into an imbroglio, breaking down over nothing like he did, leaving him no choice but to awkwardly offer comfort. Not that Harry was awkward at it, he was wonderful and Draco does not regret the last evening as much as he should. In fact, he should probably feel a little more guilty for shoving his issues on Harry, but Draco is still far too pleased with the outcome of being held and soothed by him to feel properly bad about it. 

Besides, the morning is far too beautiful to waste on guilt. 

Harry grumbles behind him. Not a morning person then. Harry is burrowing back down into his pillows, turning away from the sunlight and clinging to the last traces of sleep. Draco hides a smile. His mother wasn’t a morning person either. Draco never thought he would, but he misses someone to drag out of bed in the morning. 

Draco has gotten quite good at waking people over the years, or, in any case, he has learnt to be more considerate than he was as a child, when he would jump up and down on the bed until his mother was finally awake enough to grab him and pull him under the covers for a few short minutes of peace before Draco began to squirm again. He learnt when to allow her late mornings sleeping her fill, when to wake her with how much breakfast, when to have endless supplies of coffee ready and how much tackling she could tolerate. Because if there is one thing his mother wasn’t, it’s uncomplicated, and she had different needs every morning. There is nothing Harry could possibly throw at him that he doesn’t know how to deal with. 

Deciding on the gentle coaxing out of sleep first, Draco makes sure to be quiet as he goes to nudge Harry awake a little bit more. 

Big mistake, as it turns out. 

Harry is awake in seconds, holding Draco’s wrist in a bruising grip and noting every detail in the room with frantic eyes. There is something feral about him, the same dangerous edges Draco already knows now illuminated by the soft light of the morning. Harry’s hair is wild, a dark mess standing up in all direction and calling to Draco to get lost in, his eyes finally settling on Draco with a searing green that is going to haunt him for all his life. Draco wasn’t prepared for this, for _Harry_ , not at all. 

Harry drops his hand, as if burned, and the tension fades out of him. Draco didn’t realise how hard it was to breathe before Harry let him go. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” Draco truly didn’t, but mostly he just says it because he fears the silence settling between them. This moment feels precious, fragile, a complete reassessment of what they thought they knew about each other. 

Harry only grunts, but he also doesn’t look like he is about to jump Draco anymore. Draco isn’t sure if that is a good thing. He misses it, the single minded focus, the feeling of being _seen_. 

Draco refuses to have lost that, not after so long of being alone. 

“Do you want some tea?” Another grunt, but Harry is also slowly burrowing back into the blankets and Draco feels bereft at his retreat. He graciously interprets the grunt as confirmation, a polite and grateful one while he is at it, and busies himself making tea instead of contemplating Harry. 

Harry makes it near impossible to focus on anything but him. His eyes follow Draco through the room, a constant but pleasant weight on him, judging his dancing and off-key singing. He probably wishes Draco would stop, that he could just go back to sleep already. Well, this is Draco’s house and if he wants to dance in the morning there is no glare powerful enough to stop him. If Harry were to _say_ something … but he isn’t, so, it doesn’t matter. Besides, Draco could swear he caught a few tiny smiles when Harry didn’t think he was watching, so he must be happier than he lets on. 

Draco didn’t expect to ever connect with another person again. Not actually, not this deep and visceral way. Not with a total stranger who was only seeking refuge from the rain. And yet here Harry is, having done nothing extraordinary and still being the most interesting and compelling person Draco has met in a long time. Draco _likes_ him, wants to know what keeps him up at night and what he dreams about. He wants to tell Harry everything about himself in return. He feels a kinship to the man, completely unexplained and not to be understood with cold logic. Draco longs to explore it more deeply and to fill in the blanks, to find what binds them together. 

Soulmates, his mother would have called it. Draco used to snort at that, point out how well that worked for her and his father when he was especially annoyed by her cryptic musings. He always felt bad about that immediately, regretted dragging up old wounds for absolutely no reason, but he never seemed to learn. Nowadays, Draco knows better, understands the universe more, understands his mother better. He knows that Lucius might have been his father, but he never was her soulmate. Because soulmates don’t work like that, they aren’t actually perfect and they aren’t convenient. Draco isn’t sure if he really believes in soulmates, or if he has just gotten caught in the myth, but if they indeed exist, Harry is his. 

What Draco knows for sure, however, is that Harry isn’t the kind of person to stay anywhere for long. He is always moving, jumping from one adventure to the next and leaving nothing behind but fading impressions in the memories of the people he meets along the road. It’s scary, to think that he could be leaving Draco behind just as easily, that he could collect his few possessions and be on his way — but isn’t that what Draco wants as well? To not be tied down, to get out of this village and see what lies behind the horizon? 

Harry is living Draco’s every dream, a free traveller roaming the earth with nowhere to be and following only his own heart. It would easy — terrifyingly, temptingly easy — to go with him, cling to him like his shadow or walk side by side as his companion. Draco never envisioned himself travelling with someone else, a friend and partner to share the world’s miracles with, but now that the thought has occurred to him he _wants_ , even more fiercely than he wanted before. 

It scares him, if he is being honest. 

His dreams never seemed so close, never so fragile. Harry holds Draco’s fate in the palm of his hands, and he doesn’t even know it. Harry has no reason to allow Draco to trudge along, in fact, he probably travels alone because he prefers it that way and might even laugh at the idea of taking Draco on. After all, they don’t actually know each other, his mother’s crazy soulmates theory being true or not. If anything, Draco rambling about soulmates is more likely to send Harry running than to consider spending more time with him. 

Draco cannot tell him about any of it. 

“Harry, dear, I know I promised you breakfast, but would you mind cutting these, please?” It’s a weak attempt at distracting himself from the tailspin his thoughts have taken, but it’s the best Draco can think of at the moment. Besides, preparing food together with someone else is far more fun than doing it alone. 

Draco used to cook with his mother all the time, too small to actually contribute anything substantial and thus mostly stirring and tasting things. Being limited to these tasks didn't dim his enjoyment though, his mother blindly trusting his judgement adding in whatever he asked of her. It made for some odd meals, ranging from surprisingly good to discreetly thrown away, but she never complained and Draco always felt very important. It also taught him a lot of recipes, the steps his mother would take before Draco chimed in and demanded they use different herbs. Inviting Harry to cook with him feels like sharing the essence of all those memories and a cherished part of his mother with him. 

Not that Harry has any chance of realising that. He doesn’t see Draco’s soul bared in the offer, doesn’t feel the same intimacy that comes with opening up to someone else. Draco has no intentions of telling him either, Harry holds enough power over him as it is. Still, he likes to think his mother would approve, even if he neglects to impress the importance of the moment upon Harry. 

Who knows, maybe Draco will tell him eventually. In a far away future, long familiar with each other, friends instead of strangers and having developed a habit of cooking over flickering camp fires. Maybe then Harry will tell him his own most valued memories. 

* * *

Harry cuts down another fern, snarling and stamping over the pathetically fallen leaves. He has been cutting down everything in his path, vicious and ruthless, and he still feels hollow. 

He didn’t kill the witch. 

Draco _gave him a knife_ — practically begged Harry to slit his throat with it — and all Harry did was slice vegetables! 

Harry cuts down another plant. Something with flowers this time. Draco would have liked it. 

Just for that thought Harry goes back and destroys every single flower, tears apart the delicate petals and crushes the fragile stems. 

Because he doesn’t care about Draco, and he doesn’t know what he might or might not like. No, he _does not_. 

It’s a miracle he even got out of that house again, that he could shake off Draco’s curse for long enough to escape his clutches. Because that is all it was, a powerful curse rendering Harry temporarily love-struck and useless, but ultimately nothing but foul magic tricks. It’s the only explanation for why Draco is still alive, why Harry failed to kill him not only _once_ but _twice._ A very powerful love-spell indeed, to have bound Harry for so long. Not completely unheard of, but Harry never thought it would happen to _him_. 

Looking back now it’s obvious he didn’t stand a chance against Draco’s degenerate charms, but Harry clearly remembers not suspecting a thing. He watched Draco dance and listened to him sing and, even now, he feels infatuated, thinking back on these moments. It was all fake, nothing but calculated moves designed to taunt Harry with the home that was taken from him. Draco made him feel warm and comfortable and lulled him into complacency — cursed, he must have been. 

It’s the only possible explanation. For not killing the witch, for staying as long as he did, for even _kissing_ Draco before he left. 

At least it was a good kiss, Draco surprised but enthusiastic, clinging to Harry and opening up under him — well, Harry definitely had worse kisses than that. Even if Draco is a despicable witch. 

Harry chops the bark of a tree off.

It’s easy to forget Draco is, in fact, a servant to Satan when he looks beautifully flushed when kissed, when he sounds so painfully lonely when he talks about his dreams and hopes, when he talks about his mother. Harry almost fell into his trap. It’s only his experience with the vices of witches that saved him — 

Harry stops dead in his tracks. He groans, grinds another flower into the ground, and turns back. 

Harry knows all the vile tricks there are. He knows how to recognise them and how to defend himself against them. And yet it nearly wasn’t enough. Harry shudders to imagine all the poor souls ending up on Draco’s doorstep, completely ensnared by him and his quaint little hermit facade, falling to his despicable ways at the first shy smile. 

Harry can’t allow that to happen. 

It goes against everything he is, everything he tries to do. Harry swore he would free the world of every witch he can find and so he will do it. He will find out more about Draco, sniff out every weakness and soft spot, and then he will destroy the witch, before anyone else gets hurt. 

* * *

Standing in front of Draco’s door, Harry doesn’t know what to feel. He knows what he is _supposed_ to feel — dread, grim determination, blinding hatred — but it’s not what he _actually_ feels. That much is not nearly as clear, something decidedly warmer. Whatever it is though, it doesn’t matter. Because it's a lie anyway. Harry needs to remember that. 

He knocks. 

Draco looks surprised to see him. Harry doesn’t know if he never expected him back or just not this soon, but either way he is as surprised as Harry. Draco, however, seems much happier about it. Because Harry _isn’t_ happy to be here again, he _is not_. 

If anything, it’s the lingering effect of the curse. The near proximity to Draco must have amplified the last sparks and now Harry is dangerously close to falling into that pit again. It will fade soon enough, now that Harry knows what is happening. 

That doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate it while it lasts though, when he is already stuck like this. Attempting to go against Draco now would be stupid anyway. Really, the best thing to do all around is to follow his desires and trick Draco into thinking his plan successful and feeling safe. 

Draco is easier to move this time, laughs into the kiss and eagerly pulls him closer. It’s a shame that Draco must be one of _them_ , Harry would have loved to keep him around. He can almost see it already, simply staying here, waking up every morning next to Draco, filling his life with something other than duty keeping him on his way. He would learn more about Draco, how to make him smile and what his favourite food is. Or maybe Draco could come with him. Harry could show him everything he wants to see, make his every dream come true. 

But Draco _is_ a witch. Harry can’t forget his duty over brilliant eyes and pretty lips. This is what he _does_ , just another job. A little more kissing than usual, sure, but otherwise exactly the same. Harry has a plan here; he can’t afford to get too lost in possibilities to follow it. 

“I’ve got something for you.” Harry thought bringing Draco a bribe would be a good idea, in case Draco wouldn’t want him back, but he didn’t anticipate the open excitement on Draco’s face, or how much he would like seeing him like this. Harry can’t resist dropping another quick kiss on his lips, getting on with the plan or not. Besides, kissing Draco as much as possible can hardly hurt. 

It also serves as a wonderful distraction for Draco (a detail Harry should jot down for later) while he pulls out the arm from behind his back to present the roses to Draco. They are absolutely beautiful, a deep scarlet that called out to Harry from where they grew at the river. He might have delighted in ripping apart everything standing in his way, but these flowers made him stop. 

Draco takes the offered roses almost reverently, cradling them in his arms and tracing the soft petals with his fingers. He looks painfully delicate in that moment, all alone with nothing but some flowers to hold on to. 

Harry can’t bear it. Draco shouldn’t look this fragile. Gently, more carefully than he did anything else in a long time, he tilts Draco’s head upwards, unsure what he even planned to do except _be there_ , until he sees the tears. He didn’t mean to make Draco cry, not even these few silent tears. Harry wipes them away, wishes he never brought the stupid flowers in the first place. He wouldn’t have, not if he knew they would make Draco sad. 

“My mother, she used to call me her wild rose.” The name fits him, oddly enough. Harry doesn’t like flower names like that, thinks them pretentious and uninspired, hates when people draw overly complicated comparisons between themselves and their flower, but none of that bothers him here. Harry is even willing to admit that yes, there is something about Draco one might liken to a rose, the stunning beauty covering dangerous thorns being the most obvious connection. 

“Wild rose, huh?” Draco smiles at him, which is all the permission Harry needs to use it in the future. Especially if it makes him smile like this. Draco clearly loved his mother, it stands to reason that he would love the names she gave him, too. 

“Do you like them?” Harry can’t help asking. Draco already looks a lot better, the beginnings of his melancholy vanishing as quickly as they came, but Harry needs to make sure. 

“They are beautiful, thank you.” Draco leans up for a quick kiss before smirking at him and disappearing into the house. Harry laughs as he follows him inside. 

* * *

Draco is good with a knife. Harry’s knife, to be specific, and he should really be more unsettled by this revelation than he is. If he isn’t careful, he could die right here by his very own knife, willingly handed over to a dangerous witch. There is no more shameful way to go. 

Maybe, if Harry were less ensnared by Draco, he would have realised this sooner. Every single one of his alarm bells should have gone off the moment Draco showed the first signs of interest in Harry’s wood carving. Granted, witches don’t exactly _need_ the weapons of mortals, but some derive a sick sort of pleasure from twisting what people thought would protect them. Harry himself met enough of them that one would think he might consider twice before handing over his most loyal knife. But all Draco had to do was ask. 

Draco had watched him work with some fascination for a while before he finally summoned the courage to ask if maybe, if it’s not too much to ask, Harry could show him, possibly. And then he had smiled shyly and tugged his hair behind his ear and Harry lost all common sense. It’s embarrassing, potentially _lethal_ even, how easily Harry is swayed by him. To be fair though, Harry is pretty sure no one could resist Draco’s wide-eyed hope. 

Seeing him now, face scrunched up in concentration as he massacres a log, Harry doesn’t regret a thing. It was nice, guiding Draco’s hands, pressing close to him under the guise of teaching. Draco has incredible hands, soft where Harry’s are rough (probably never saw a day of honest work, Harry really should have made a snide comment about that) and fitting perfectly into his own. Harry never cared about hands before, not to this amount, and they definitely shouldn’t be as attractive as Draco’s are. 

But then, Draco is extraordinary in just about everything. Harry should have accepted that by now, instead of being surprised at every new facet he discovers this to be true for. 

“My godfather taught me how to do this, you know. He used to take me to go camping and we would sit around a bonfire, telling stories and carving their creatures. He always said —” What is Harry doing? Draco doesn’t need to know any of this. He doesn’t need to know about Harry’s childhood or what is important to him. 

There is a _plan_ here, an important one that Harry strayed off far enough as it is. And Draco is a _witch_ , evil and despicable and so very much the enemy that it doesn’t even need saying anymore. Telling him about Sirius is the absolute last thing Harry should be doing, more stupid than handing Draco a knife. 

“What did he say?” Draco must know exactly what he is doing. The innocent eyes, the comforting hand, the open curiosity. 

The most infuriating thing is, it’s working. Draco has been pulling secrets from him this entire time, smaller and not as significant, but secrets Harry never planned on telling anyone. They were secret for a reason, after all. Harry can’t explain it, but he _wants_ to tell Draco everything, the good and the bad, the new possibilities Draco showed him. 

“He was an odd person, my godfather. I think he might have stolen me, actually.” Harry watches in amusement as Draco chokes on his surprise, clinging to Harry as he splutters and gasps for air. Sirius always had that effect on people, and Harry always loved watching it. The shock serves Draco right, nosey little thing. If he wants to know, he might as well know it all. 

As much as Harry enjoys making him stumble though, he doesn’t actually want him to suffocate. He claps Draco on the back, not sure about the effectiveness of the gesture but delighting in the glare he gets. That’s a good sign, the glaring. Plus, it makes Draco look adorable; like an angry kitten. 

“I’m sorry, you said he _stole_ you?” There is just enough admiration in Draco’s tone, that hint of respect people didn’t usually afford Sirius when they saw him with Harry. 

Sirius didn’t _steal_ him, of course, not really. He just … disregarded some stupid laws in favour of doing what he knew to be right. It turned out well enough, too, in the grand scheme of things. Though making people think Sirius is dangerous criminal is way more fun. 

“He did, yes. My parents died incredibly young, too young to have considered needing a plan for — well, _that_. So, after they died, I was supposed to go to my aunt and uncle. Horrible, stuck-up prudes, the both of them, but the only biological family I had left. Sirius, one of my parents best friends and thus named my godfather, knew my parents never would have wanted me to live their hated relatives, and he refused to let them take me. He took me before they could get their hands on me and we ran. We never really stopped, called it travelling later on, visited lots of different people all over the country — it was the best time of my life, quite honestly.” And it was, it really was. 

Harry remembers it well, long hours spent with Sirius teaching him songs to pass the time, the horse races Harry never won until suddenly he did, the months they would stay with Remus … it’s the only home Harry ever knew. 

“What happened?” Draco’s voice is low, reverent and knowing. He knows _exactly_ what happened, and Harry can’t tell him. He should be over it by now, learnt to accept the inevitabilities of life and move on, pressed the emotions down until they can no longer hurt him. 

He hasn’t learnt, he isn’t over it, and the emotions are nowhere near deep enough buried to deny. The pain is still raw, aching and flaring up when he least expects it. 

“Sirius died. I was forced to move in with my aunt and uncle. You know, life.” Said like this, Harry can almost pretend it happened to someone else, just another sob-story heard along the way. “They didn’t think much of him, or me for that matter, and they never hesitated to make that clear. I ran away as soon as I could.” 

Harry half suspects Draco to say something, something stupid and insensitive, prodding for even more. Or worse, something empty and meaningless, what one says to feel better when they hear the about tragedies they neither understand nor want to deal with. 

Draco doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything, just moves a little closer, offering instead of taking. Harry greedily accepts, pulling Draco near and holding on to him as if he could keep the pain away. 

In some ways, it even works. 

* * *

Draco can barely remember his life without Harry anymore. It’s impossible to think that, just a few days ago, he didn’t even know the man. Now Harry is everywhere in his life, present in every aspect of it. 

Harry’s boots are standing next to the door, just like Draco’s own. They are crusted in mud and in desperate need of a cleaning; Draco should hate having them in the cottage his mother insisted on keeping pristine. But there is something so quintessentially _Harry_ about it, about the charm the picture holds to Draco despite there being nothing actually charming about it. Draco doesn’t mind the dirty footprints half as much as he claims to. 

Harry’s coat (in equally battered shape as his boots) is carelessly thrown over a chair, ignoring the perfectly serviceable coat-rack. Draco built it himself, several different versions and attempts of it. That summer was filled with the joyful — near manic in his pursuit, one might say — discovery of wood working. And yet, in all his creating and re-designing of coat-racks and cupboards, Draco never once thought of forming something smaller, something beautiful and delicate with no specific use. Not until Harry showed him how. 

There are two sets of dishes waiting to be washed, Draco’s books laying somewhere else than were he put them down and more pillows on his bed than their used to be. 

In just two days, Harry carved out a space for himself in Draco’s home. Draco doesn’t want him to leave. 

He didn’t understand how lonely he truly was, nothing to fill his days but yearning to be somewhere else, and no one to talk to but the village people he, at best, barely tolerates. Humans are social creatures, his mother used to tell him, and Draco refused to believe her. He thought him living here all by himself without this treasured ‘human contact’ was proof that, Draco, at least, is not a social creature at all. 

And then Harry came along and turned his world on its head. Turns out his mother was right. 

Not only does Harry make his miserable life here better, Harry is the human embodiment of his every dream. Harry travels and sees the world, he is independent and while he didn’t have it easy getting to this point, he doesn’t let his bad experiences stop him. Harry is fearless, he laughs easily and he is content with the small pleasures life has to offer. Draco is awestruck by him, by all that he is and every tiny thing he does. Harry is who Draco waited for, he is certain. Harry will save him. 

Possibly almost better than the thought of a future together, more tangible, is their present together. When Harry first knocked on his door, Draco never would have thought him fond of cuddling. And yet here they are, Harry’s head heavy on his shoulder, his arms wound tightly around his waist, holding on to Draco even in his sleep. He is warm and close and Draco can feel his steady breathing on his neck. It’s soothing, just laying here and carding his fingers through Harry’s soft hair. 

He was scared to move at all when he first realised Harry had fallen asleep. Draco put the book away then, hoarse from reading to Harry and quick to lose interest when he didn’t have reactions to observe. He didn’t want to wake Harry, but their sitting position had gotten rather uncomfortable quickly. And as great as having Harry fall asleep on him was, Draco refused to sacrifice his back for it. Fortunately, Draco didn’t have to choose. He can have both, a comfortable bed under him and Harry nestled against him. He could grow used to this. 

* * *

Draco is looking at him like the world depends on his answer, like Harry holds the reigns to fate in his hands. It becomes harder and harder to convince himself he isn't growing too attached. 

“Stop asking already, _I don’t care_.” Harry puts all the menacing anger he has at his disposal into his voice. He likes to think he has gotten quite good at that over the years, raised intimidation to an art form, one might say. But Draco only blinks at him, totally unimpressed and waiting for Harry to make his choice. Harry tries again, with more malice this time. “I _told_ you, I don’t want a stupid flower crown.” 

Draco smiles brightly at him. Harry doesn’t know what happened to him, what made him suddenly light up into this literal ray of sunshine, but since they left the cabin this morning to lead them to this clearing, Draco couldn’t hide his excitement. It’s highly possible that he didn’t even try. Too much sun, probably, it left Draco giddy and smiling and yes fine, maybe Harry doesn’t mind half as much as he pretends to. But really, Draco surrounded by colourful flowers and hair gleaming in the sunlight — who wouldn’t be completely (however reluctantly) endeared? Harry would have to be dead not to enjoy that view. 

“And I told _you_ that any resistance is futile. Everyone wants a flower crown, they are absolutely lovely, you just happen not to know it yet.” Right, as if that makes any sense. Just because Draco states it as if it were a fact doesn’t mean it actually _is_ one. Harry doesn’t have the heart to tell him that. 

“Yes, fine, I will admit, on you they look —” stunning, beautiful, elegant, cute — Harry can tell him none of that without humiliating himself, “— well, they suit you. But I really don’t want one so _please_ stop asking about it already.” 

Draco shrugs, decides on the purple flower without Harry’s input (it's the right choice, thankfully) and doesn’t seem to have noticed Harry’s flailing. It looks almost simple when Draco does it, the braiding of single flowers into delicate crowns, strategically placing them so each and every one of them is visible and fits nicely against the other ones around. Draco looks like he belongs here, a free spirit that shouldn’t be cooped up in that house or tethered to that village, shouldn't have anything to worry about and nothing to do but enjoy the flowers. 

“You know, I’m sure the flowers will suit you very well, too. You have such dark hair, the contrast will bring out the colours of the flowers. Don’t worry about looking any less handsome for it.” Draco smiles at him again, but this one is different from the sun induced mania. This one is almost shy, more the Draco Harry saw these last two days. It’s just as charming as the smiles of today, though. 

Harry already knows he is going to wear the crown, simply because it’s _Draco_ who made it. Harry doesn’t want to see the disappointment on his face should he not, much less be the cause of it. The things we do for love. 

Wait — love? Harry doesn’t _love_. Not anymore, not since a long time. 

He loved his parents, loved them with the unassuming and all encompassing love that only children are capable of. He loved them, until they were taken from him. 

Harry loved Sirius, of that he is sure. Sirius is the only good thing Harry had in his life, brighter than the sun and wickedly intelligent. Harry loved Remus, too, because Sirius loved him and that was all the reason Harry needed. 

But then Sirius died, and Harry lost everything. It was easier not to love, after that.

Draco though … Draco sneaked right past his defences. Harry has known him all of three days (closer to two, actually) and Draco used that time to burrow deep into his heart. 

Draco is oblivious to Harry’s thoughts, humming as he picks up flower to consider them, meticulously planning how to weave them together. 

Love. Maybe; maybe Harry really _does_ love him. 

“Draco —” Something moves in the woods, dark and menacing behind Draco. 

Harry stands without a thought, hand going to the knife at his hip and eyes focused on the tree line. He _swore_ he saw something move there. 

“Harry? Are you alright?” Draco moves to stand beside him, watching over his shoulder as Harry shoves him behind himself. 

“I saw something move in—” Draco clutches his arm as if he needs it to stand. Not an unwelcome sensation, not at all, but unfortunately Harry needs that arm if he wants to defend the both of them. “Let go off my arm and sit back down.” 

Draco does neither, peering between the trees as if daring the beast to come out and attack them. 

“Things are _supposed_ to move in the woods, you know? They are alive and all.” Harry doesn’t have time for smart answers or questioning of his behaviour. He shoves Draco back down. 

_Supposed to move_ — as if it really were that simple. Hunting is what Harry _does_ , and he is good at it, too. If his senses tell him there is a threat nearby, that means a threat is near. 

It moves again, closer this time. Harry still can’t see anything clearly, though. 

This isn’t great. He can’t stay here, squinting and hoping to catch a sign of the beast before it lunges. But he also can’t go and hunt it down because that would mean leaving Draco unprotected. Harry has no intention of letting Draco come to harm, not as long as Harry has anything to say about it. 

“Are you going to stop glaring at the trees any time soon? Because, while you look very dashing all grim and broody, this isn’t exactly what I planned on doing today.” Draco whispers the words in his ear, just suggestive enough to send a thrill through Harry. It’s almost enough to make him forget about the dark shadow lurking, to let it lurk for however long it wants and instead listen to what else Draco might have planned (even if it's only more tedious flowers, Harry could easily watch Draco deliberate over flowers for far longer than he should be able to bear). 

Only almost though. 

“Fine, go hunt your monster then. Don’t mind me, just counting flowers.” Draco lets go with a disappointed huff, slumping back down and reaching for the half-finished crown. 

Harry wants to, he does, but he doesn’t sit down next to him. Draco is right, mocking as he was. He needs to hunt this thing down. And he needs to be fast about it, because leaving Draco here unprotected is a risk. With one last glance to make sure Draco is okay (ridiculous and pointless because Harry didn’t even leave yet so of course he is alright) before setting out to find the beast. 

Hunting animals, it turns out, is far more difficult than striking down witches. Granted, Harry had to set more than one trap on particularly dire roads, but that is nowhere near the same as chasing them down. There is nothing suspicious between the trees, nothing big enough to be a threat or to explain what he saw. Nothing that justifies leaving Draco exposed to danger anymore. 

Harry should go back, he can protect Draco better when he is there should the beast turn up again. Besides, listening to Draco’s musing over the meanings of the flowers he chose is more fun than crouching through the woods. 

The only reason to stay here for a little while more is that Draco is going to be unbearably smug when Harry returns with nothing to prove he was right to worry. Maybe Harry can distract him though, if he — Harry freezes. His brain refuses to understand what he sees, rooted to the ground and absolutely useless. 

Harry expected to find Draco how he left him, lazing in the sun and arranging flowers. That isn’t what he sees now. 

Where Draco is supposed to sit, Harry sees something huge and black, moving, thick fur, pale limbs flailing around it. Draco. 

It doesn’t make sense, because Harry _checked,_ he made sure Draco was safe. It doesn’t make sense that he _isn’t_ — until it suddenly, horrifically does. 

The wolf waited until Harry left to search for it in the woods, attacking Draco as soon as Harry was gone. 

Wolves are predators, clever and savage, without mercy, thirsting for blood. Draco never stood a chance, completely overwhelmed by the giant beast throwing him onto the ground and gnawing at him. 

Harry needs to stop it, needs to stop it _now_ if he doesn’t want Draco to be bitten to death by cruel fangs. Harry was meant to _protect_ him, the least he can do is save him, now that he failed in that. 

He knows he should be careful, should contemplate and search for a way to kill the beast without hurting Draco further, but that isn’t what he does. Harry doesn’t think — _can’t_ , not while Draco is in danger — he just throws his knife into the black mess and prays that he hit the right things. 

Draco suddenly moves, reaching out for him with desperate hands and shouting something Harry doesn’t understand, and for one horrible moment Harry is sure his knife will end up in Draco. 

Instead, the knife falls down, useless and without hitting anything. 

That isn’t what was supposed to happen. 

The wolf was supposed to yowl in pain, easy for Harry to pull off by his scruff like a disobedient kitten. Harry was supposed to _save_ Draco. 

But Draco is unharmed, miraculously, considering a vicious beast did its best to devour him just seconds ago. A little dishevelled, sure, and furious, but unharmed. 

There is only one possible solution, only one thing that would explain why Draco is glaring at him with the feral thing nudging at his leg. 

Witchcraft. 

* * *

Harry shows no sign of listening to him, staring somewhere past Draco. It’s rather uncanny, how Harry retreated into himself. If he didn’t put Padfoot at such a risk Draco would be worried about him. As things are though, there is no doubt in Draco’s mind that Harry intended to kill his loyal wolf. He isn’t in the mood to sooth Harry’s temper. 

“Are you going to actually say anything or just stand there?” Harry snaps to attention at that, eyes focusing back on Draco. There is an odd quality to them, something he can't interpret, a dark flicker of emotion. Anger, too, copious amounts of it. 

"I was trying to _help_ you! You might not have noticed, but your little _pet_ there was about to eat your face off." Harry gestures at Padfoot as if he's about to throw something again. Draco steps between them before he has the chance.

"Don't you _dare_ touch him." Harry actually flinches away from him. Draco almost feels bad about that that. Only almost though.

Draco practically raised Padfoot, found a tiny wolf pup all alone and couldn't bring himself to leave it to the harsh winter outside. So, Draco took him in, spoilt him rotten and played with him and slept snuggled close against him. And then in the spring, Padfoot stayed. 

Of course, Padfoot didn't stay with Draco forever, he is far too curious and wild to be domesticated like that. He returns often though, greeting Draco enthusiastically. Padfoot is the closest thing to a family Draco has left, and he won't tolerate his family getting hurt. 

That's why he got Padfoot the collar, despite his initial reluctance to wear it. The people living in the village are simple at times, easily scared and quick to attack. Finding Padfoot wounded and bleeding because the village proved too tempting to avoid is not something Draco is eager to repeat. He had to stake his claim. Mostly it works just fine, on occasion it even saves Padfoot from knives thrown by men who think they know everything.

Harry obviously didn't know though, either didn't see the collar or didn't understand what it means, but he thought Padfoot was a threat. As if Padfoot would ever hurt Draco. But Harry couldn't have known that and he looks genuinely sorry. Rather confused, too. 

Mostly confused, now that Draco is certain Padfoot is unharmed and can judge without fear and anger. Harry doesn't look like he has any plans of assaulting Padfoot again. 

Draco _did_ intent to introduce them anyway, as soon as Padfoot came back. This is as good an opportunity as any. Better, in fact, because it will show Harry that Draco is serious when he says Padfoot is not to be harmed. 

Only that it also made the whole situation rather more tense than it needed to be. And Padfoot doesn't like Harry. He would already demand to be patted otherwise, sniffing at Harry and poking him. Instead, Padfoot is hiding behind Draco, growling lowly as Harry moves closer. Draco can't fault him for that, Padfoot doesn't yet know that Harry would never hurt Draco or, consequently, his friends. 

"Harry, meet my favourite wolf, Padfoot." Harry takes a moment (presumably to understand the concept of a tame wolf) before visibly gathering himself and smiling, giving Padfoot a small wave. Draco melts a little at the display. Padfoot, however, isn't impressed. This is less than ideal.

Draco finds himself telling Harry all about how small Padfoot used to be, how they ran through the woods together, all the while carding his fingers through Padfoot’s fur to either calm him down or hold him should he decide to take his revenge on Harry after all. 

Harry's eyes are glazing over again. Fantastic, Draco turned into the old lady who bores everyone with stories of her cats. However, Harry isn't looking for an escape route. Harry is _smiling_ , fond and soft despite being slightly spaced out. 

"Right, yes, that’s enough about Padfoot." Draco coughs, that awkward thing people do when they really ought to stop talking but can't say _nothing_ either because they have to fill the silence. Harry is suddenly fully aware again, quietly laughing at Draco's verbal fumbling. Of course he is, no sense in Draco humiliating himself if no one is there to observe it. 

Draco quickly ducks down, using the pretence of talking to Padfoot to escape Harry's gaze. "I know you got off to a rough start, but I promise Harry never meant to hurt you. He's a good man, Harry, and he makes me very happy. I think he deserves a second chance, don't you?"

Padfoot doesn't, throwing his head back with a haughty sniff. He growls one last time at Harry, and then abandons them for more interesting things. Well, that could have gone better. Draco will have to sneak Harry some treats for Padfoot before they meet again. 

"I love you." Harry says the words full if wonder, a wide-eyed confession Draco has no time to comprehend beyond the initial rush of overwhelmed joy, before he is kissed to within an inch of his life. 

Harry _loves_ him. 

Draco is breathless and giddy and he never wants this moment to end, wants to press himself under Harry's skin until their souls are one, until they never have to be alone again. Love, Harry loves him. And maybe, Draco loves him back. 

They eventually have to break apart, just enough to swallow little gasps of air, foreheads pressed together and their breath warm on each other’s faces. 

Draco can't quite believe this is true, that his life could ever be this happy. He pulls away until he can see Harry properly, his green eyes dazed, his lips pink and utterly kissable, his glasses skewed and his hair spiked up in all directions.

Harry brings his hands up to frame Draco's face, palms warm against his cheeks as he smooths his thumbs over Draco's cheekbones. 

"What did you do to me, little rose?" Harry doesn’t want an answer, he knows, and even if he did want one, Draco wouldn’t be able to give it to him. 

It’s a vague question, encompassing far too many things to have a neat answer prepared. Draco asked himself the same thing before, what did Harry do to him? How did he become so immensely important to Draco in just a few days? It’s exciting, thrilling, it makes Draco feel alive and living like nothing else did. It’s also scary. Terrifying, even, because Draco has no idea what to expect, no idea where this is going. 

But then, it doesn’t really matter as long as Harry is there, too. Draco would gladly follow Harry to the ends of the earth, if that is what he wanted. There is nothing he is scared of as long as Harry stands at his side. 

So, Draco gives the only answer he is capable of giving, the only explanation he can find. 

“Harry.” It’s all the answer Draco has, and all the answer Harry needs. 

Harry smiles at him, the light of the sinking sun shining behind him perfectly so that, for one moment, Harry is entirely surrounded by the golden glow. Like a halo, it shrouds his features in shadow and emphasises his silhouette. 

Then Harry raises his arm, holding something in his fist that Draco can’t make out against the light. He stays like that for a moment, hand stretched into the sky, before he suddenly brings it down. 

Draco screams. Too late. 

* * *

_On the third day he took me to the river_

_He showed me the roses and we kissed_

_And the last thing I heard was a muttered word_

_As he knelt above me with a rock in his fist_

_On the last day I took her where the wild roses grow_

_And she lay on the bank, the wind light as a thief_

_And I kissed her goodbye, said, "All beauty must die"_

_And I lent down and planted a rose 'tween her teeth_

* * *

The stone lands with a sickening thump and Draco’s body goes slack in his arms. 

Harry can’t watch him fall. 

He barely manages to catch Draco before he plummets onto the ground, holding him close and laying him down gently. 

Looking at Draco now, he sees no traces of the hated witch. But Draco’s lovely facade doomed him before; Harry won’t be fooled again. He _knows_ , beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Draco is a witch through and through. It’s written all over him, if only one is brave enough to see. 

The vile nature of witches shows in everything he did, from the very first moment when he carelessly invited a dangerous stranger into his house. Humans don’t live all alone in the forest, without protection against the creatures lurking. Witches though, witches know they are the most powerful beings around, and they smugly flaunt it. Humans don’t befriend wild beasts, they stay away or hunt them down. Humans also, crucially, cannot magically protect their unnatural pets from knives. 

Draco is a witch, tried and proven. All that is left is to enforce the judgement. 

Much as he might wrestle with it lately, Harry made a promise. He has a _duty_ , a mission; there is no space for exceptions. 

Harry grabs the stone tighter and raises it high over his head, closes his eyes, slams the stone down with all his force. 

Witches are evil. _Slam_. 

They lie and they curse and they take anything and everything they want. _Slam._

They make you feel helpless and lost and confused, take all your power. _Slam_. 

Make you tell them your deepest secrets. _Slam_. 

Make you love them. _Slam_. 

Laugh at how easily they can make you dance. _Slam_. 

Harry refuses to be a puppet any longer, to be manipulated by foul spells. _Slam_. 

He is the one in control now, the witch at his mercy. _Slam._

Harry can see it all clearly now, he is finally free. _Slam._

Roses really do have thorns, and Draco cut him deep. 

The stone slides out of Harry’s hand, slippery and wet from blood. 

Harry stops, looks at what he did, at long last back to doing what he was supposed to do. Killing witches. 

Draco’s face is badly disfigured, covered in blood and swelling bruises, his chest is heaving, weak and desperate, fluttering heart like a baby bird. 

He is beautiful, even now. It won't save him. 

The witch moves as if to speak, his rasping breath becoming more laboured but no words escaping him. Probably for the best, Harry doesn’t want his last moments to be strained. Harry will have to be responsible for last words then. 

Careful not to hurt Draco, he leans forward, close enough for their cheeks to touch, Draco’s blood warm and sticky against Harry’s skin. 

“All beauty must die.” One of life’s many horrible truths. 

Draco whimpers, a soft noise barely audible. 

Harry moves back, just enough to gently drop a kiss onto Draco’s forehead. This is goodbye. 

Harry raises the stone again. 

* * *

It’s awfully quiet. Harry is acutely aware of the birds that should sing but don’t, the insects that should fly and buzz everywhere but don’t, all the little snaps and clicks that attest to life in the forest. 

Harry can’t hear anything, absolutely nothing. 

The blood is dried, cracked, all over his hands and smeared onto his face. Draco’s blood. 

Draco’s body is broken, frail like he never was when he was alive. When he was still breathing, laughing and smiling at Harry, braiding crowns out of flowers and befriending wolf pups. 

It’s not Draco at all anymore, not _Harry’s_ Draco. 

Harry remembers the stone, remembers how _good_ it felt and his skin crawls with disgust at himself. _He_ did this. 

Harry barely dares to touch Draco, scared to inflict more pain, but he cannot _not_ touch him either. 

He tries to wipe the blood of Draco’s face, his head cradled in Harry’s hand. It doesn’t work. If anything, it makes matters worse, destroys the already thin illusion of peaceful sleep. 

“I'm sorry, I’m so sorry, Draco.” 

But it’s too late for that, isn’t it? The damage is already done, Draco is dead. Harry lost him. 

The _one_ good thing that happened to him, and it was taken away from him. 

Witches, they killed his parents, they ruined everything bright in his life — of course they had to take Draco, too. 

But here, kneeling helplessly over the shattered love of his life, Harry has enough. He can’t take it anymore, _refuses_ to accept it. 

They can ruin Harry’s life, he learnt to arrange himself with that, found his own way of fighting back, but Draco is too far. There are _limits_ here, and that was too much. 

They will pay for this, for taking Draco from him in such a cruel way. Harry will avenge him.

Because Draco, his lovely, funny, dreaming Draco, he deserved so much better than this. And then, when every last witch died screaming, Harry will join Draco. They will get their happy ending, and if it’s the last thing Harry does. 

  


**Author's Note:**

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